


tom harris' guide to getting a boyfriend

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, This is mostly comedy, and some fluff, can't forget the fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29567523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Tom and Alex go vacationing, watch trashy television, and ultimately work out their feelings.
Relationships: Tom Harris/Alex Rider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	tom harris' guide to getting a boyfriend

“This is a terrible idea,” Tom says, spreading his hands flat over the dashboard, so wide they hurt. 

Alex, next to him, ignores his concern. He also ignores the stop sign, blowing through the sleepy intersection at a terrifying eighty kilometers an hour. 

The snow is beating down on the windshield; the windshield wipers barely able to keep up with it. Outside, the world is white. 

Tom isn’t sure how he managed to get talked into coming along with Alex during his winter break. He could have been lounging in his room, nice and warm, with a mug of coffee—instead, he’s trying not to throw up as his insane spy of a best friend rips through a tiny town at breakneck speeds. 

“We’re almost there, I swear,” is all he says, and hangs a sharp left that has Tom’s hands flying to grip the seat. 

“Did they not teach you to fucking drive at spy school!?” he half screeches. It’s mostly a joke—they both know all of Alex’s training was on the job, save for his two weeks at SAS boot camp. Which, actually, come to think of it, explains why he’s driving like a maniac. 

Alex, eyes glued to the road, takes a hand off the wheel—“Don’t fucking do that!” Tom screeches to no avail—and pats him on the shoulder. “If we get into an accident, ‘Six’ll cover it,” he reassures, totally mistaking why Tom is concerned. 

His palm is warm even through Tom’s sweater, and for a moment, Tom’s mouth is dry; his entire world narrowing down to that one point of contact. Then he says, half strangled, “That’s not why I’m concerned, you arse.”

“Well it was either that or the fact that I forgot tire chains.”

“You what—“ Tom drops his face into his hands. Groans. “Never fucking mind. Just—stop talking. Please.”

“Okay,” Alex says, calm as ever, swerving to avoid hitting a pedestrian. 

Finally, finally, they make it to the hotel parking lot. Tom staggers out of the car and into the blizzard and nearly falls over. “Fuck!” he exclaims, cheeks stinging already with the force of the wind and the snow whipping against his skin. 

Alex, wearing only a thin windbreaker and gloves, seems utterly unaffected. His cheeks aren’t even red. He pops the trunk and pulls out their suitcases, handing Tom his own. Tom takes it, shivering, and begins the hike to the hotel entrance, Alex following after him. 

The lady at the front desk seems superbly unimpressed with him. “R-y-d-e-r?” she asks, blowing a large, pink bubble and then snapping it with a loud pop. 

“R-i-d-e-r,” Tom corrects, pulling off his gloves to blow on his hands in an attempt to warm them up. “Alex Rider.”

“Uh huh,” she says. Digs around in the desk drawer. Pulls a key out, passing it to him. “Check out is at noon, breakfast ends at nine, and the pool closes at ten at night. Have a good stay.” The last bit sounds bored, like she’s repeated it so often it’s become second nature. 

Tom turns to find Alex at the counter a few feet away next to the coffee machine, slipping creamers into his pockets; snaps, “Alex, please put the creamers back.”

Alex, caught red handed, just blinks at him innocently. “I was only taking one for my coffee,” he says, waving the cup for emphasis; and pours three creamers into it. 

Tom lets put an exasperated huff. 

“Your room is on the third floor,” the receptionist says, obviously eager to get rid of him and get back to the game of solitaire that Tom can see reflected in her glasses. 

He gives a strained smile. “Thanks. Alex, come. I swear,” he mutters, once he’s finally corralled Alex into the elevator, “it’s like trying to herd cats with you.”

Alex offers a charming smile. Moves to take a sip of his coffee. “Absolutely not,” Tom says, batting his hand. “I don’t need you wired at three in the morning trying to make a barricade with our door. Toss it out.”

Alex’s brown eyes go slightly stormy. “You’re as bad as Jones,” he accuses.

Tom stares at him, nonplussed. Finally, Alex relents. When they step out of the elevator on the third floor, he drops the styrofoam cup into the closest rubbish bin. “There—happy, you dictator?”

“Unbelievably,” Tom says, drily, and swipes the keycard in the lock and opens the door, dragging his suitcase after him. Alex follows a few beats later. 

There’s a long silence as they both stare at the room. 

“There’s only one bed,” Alex says, incredibly helpfully, as if Tom can’t see that himself and isn’t having a tiny bit of a mental breakdown over that very fact. 

“Yeah,” Tom says; trying to keep his voice normal. “You’re taking the couch.”

“What? No! Absolutely not!” Alex says; letting go of his suitcase and launching himself into the bed. “I just got back from a fucking mission, Tom, I spent three months sleeping on the rainforest floor. I’m not letting you deprive me of a proper bed.”

“Well I’m not sleeping on the couch,” Tom snaps. 

“Okay,” Alex says. “We’ll share.”

Tom squawks. “Are you nuts?” 

“Arguably yes,” Alex replies. “I promise I don’t bite, though. Well, not usually,” he amends. 

Tom closes his eyes. Presses the heels of his hands to them. Tries to will himself to wake up out of this nightmare. 

The concept of sharing a bed with Alex isn’t, in and of itself, bad. There’s just the tiny issue of the fact that Tom is somewhat head over heels for his best mate. 

Unfortunately, despite his best wishes, when he opens his eyes, he hasn’t magically been transported to his own bed. Instead, Alex stares at him from where he’s sitting on the hotel bed. Tom sighs. “At least it’s a king,” he mutters. 

“That’s the spirit,” Alex says. “Now what do you say we order room service and go check out that pool?”

“It’s literally snowing,” Tom says. “There’s no way I’m getting into a pool, even if it’s indoors.”

Alex shrugs. “Okay. Well, then, you can count my laps for me.”

“Fine,” Tom says. Picks up the menu on the bedside table. “You’re not allowed to order just dessert,” he says to Alex, who’s come to peer over his shoulder at the menu. 

Alex lets out a groan. “So you want me to die, then?” he demands. 

“I don’t think you’re going to die because you didn’t get to eat your body weight in sugar,” Tom says, unimpressed. 

In the end, they reach a compromise. Alex orders peach crepes and a side of hash browns, and promises to not slather those in marmalade, which is about all that Tom can reasonably expect him to limit himself with. He decides to count it as a win anyway. 

Dinner comes about half an hour later, while they’re watching trashy tv. “You get it,” alex says. “I don’t want to miss seeing who Brittany votes off.”

“Maybe I don’t want to miss it either,” Tom retorts. 

Alex shoves him off the bed. 

“You know, you’re kind of a dick,” Tom tells him, peeling himself up off the floor and going to answer the door, bringing the plates of food in and depositing Alex’s on his lap. 

Alex gives a noncommittal grunt and begins to eat his crepes with his fingers. 

Tom wrinkles his nose and carefully cuts his spinach omelette with his knife and fork. 

Back in grade school, their situations would have been reversed—Alex was generally the one with more manners—but now, at twenty-one, Tom finds that he’s the one remembering to not shovel giant bites of food into his mouth. Part of it is probably from the fact that, despite being housemates, Alex spends a good ten months of the year off doing fuck knows what god knows where, and probably doesn’t really interact with normal humans as much as he really should. Tom gets the general impression that the people Alex deals with tend to be those weird rich maniacs. 

Well, and his weird godfather, Yassen the assassin. But Tom wouldn’t exactly count Yassen as a paragon of normal human behaviour, either. Once the man broke into their flat and stood over Tom’s bed until he woke up just so he could intimidate him into telling him what kind of cake Alex liked. Two weeks later on Alex’s birthday an artisanal cake had shown up with a note that said something in russian. Alex had been thrilled. Tom, not so much. 

On screen, Brittney eliminates Josh and Isaac. “Pity,” Tom says, idly, “I was rooting for josh.”

Alex gives him a look of abject disgust. “Josh kicked her cat,” he says. “Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Not really,” Tom admits. “I just think he was hot.”

“What,” Alex says, flatly, pausing with a piece of crepe halfway to his mouth. 

Tom shrugs. “I mean, they’re all eye candy, you have to admit.”

“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I have taste as bad as yours,” Alex says, scornfully. “Next thing you know, you’re going to be telling me Brittney is hot.”

“...”

“I hate you,” Alex says. “I really do.”

“Says the man eating syrup coveted crepes with his fingers.”

“Shut up.”

Tom shrugs. Takes another bite of his omelette. Watches Alex demolish the last of his crepes and start on the hash browns with a sort of morbid fascination. 

It’s almost inhuman how quickly the man eats. Tom tells him so. Alex tells him he’s just slow and takes a sip of mineral water and hisses. “God, i hate this stuff.”

“So don’t drink it,” Tom says, reasonably. Alex ignores him. 

When they’re done, they put the plates on the desk. “We’re going swimming,” Alex announces, and digs through his suitcase for a pair of trunks. Doesn’t even bother to go into the bathroom, just begins stripping. Tom turns around to allow him a modicum of privacy. 

“Alright,” Alex announces, dumping his clothes into the suitcase and closing the top, “let’s go.”

With that, he makes a bee line for the door, forcing Tom to practically jog to keep up with him. He doesn’t slow at all until they get to the pool, which means that once they do stop, Tom has to double over and wheeze for breath for a few minutes. Alex raises an unimpressed brow before hopping into the water. “Count my laps,” he demands, and takes off. 

Tom sighs. Settles into one of the deck chairs. Begins to count. 

Alex makes fifty laps in under an hour, slicing through the water with a deadly grace. When he climbs out, he barely looks like it’s affected him at all. Then again, Tom muses, he does spend his time running away from people as a job.

“Alright,” he announces, “now I’m ready to go to bed.”

He looks as perky as ever. Tom doesn’t point it out. “Okay,” he says, rising, and tucks his phone away. Lets Alex lead him back to their room. 

This time Alex does disappear into the bathroom to take a shower and get changed into his pyjamas. When he emerges, his blond hair has been fluffed up with a hairdryer, the effect softening his features. Tom wants to reach out and run his hands across his face and through his hair. 

Instead he buries his face beneath the pillow. “Turn off the light,” he grumbles, burrowing beneath the blankets. 

Alex, for once, does as fold, before slipping under the blankets. There’s a carefully cultivated space between them, but Tom can still feel the heat radiating off the other and probably could from a mile away. If he’s an ice cube, then Alex is a human hot water bottle in terms of body heat. 

“You know,” Alex says, faux casually, “you’re really bad at hiding things.”

“Stellar observation, Agent Rider,” Tom grunts. He really doesn’t like where this is going.

“For example,” Alex continues, “you’ve been wanting to kiss me since I asked you to come on vacation with me.”

“Bit before then, actually,” Tom says; because he can’t help but want to prove Alex wrong. Still, anxiety thrums through his body. 

Alex huffs. Reaches out a hand to put on his hip. “I have a solution to that problem,” he says, and props himself up on one arm and leans down to press his lips to Tom’s. 

Tom stares up at him in the dark, wide eyed, brain both going a thousand miles an hour and flatlining. When Alex pulls away, all he can say is, “I’m still not sleeping on the couch.”

Alex sighs. “Ideally neither of us would,” he says, weirdly patient. It takes a few moments to click for tom. 

When it does, he rolls over and throws an arm over Alex. “You utter bastard,” he says. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

“Well I said something now, didn’t I?” Alex points out. 

“Shut up and be my space heater,” Tom says, curling in closer to him. 

Alex laughs. Presses another kiss to his lips. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
